“Hark! Listen!” said Pen, holding up his hand.
“Guns firing!” exclaimed Punch in a whisper. “Think that’s in the little valley that leads up to the old mine?”
“It’s impossible to say,” replied Pen. “It’s firing, sure enough, and a long way off; but I can’t tell whether it’s being replied to or whether we are only listening to the echoes.”
“Anyhow,” said Punch, “it’s marching orders, and I suppose we ought to get farther away.”
“Yes,” replied Pen with a sigh. “But how do you feel? Ready to go on now?”
“No, not a bit. I feel as if I want to take off my coat and bathe my arms in the water here, for they ache like hooray.”
“Do it, then,” said Pen wearily, “and I must do the same to my wound as well; and then, Punch, there’s only one thing I can do more.”
“What’s that, comrade?”
“Get in the shade under that grey-looking old olive, and have a few hours’ sleep.”
“Splendour!” said Punch, taking off his coat. “Hark at the firing!”